Decide this time you’re done. Find a secluded section of the park. Put your back into it when you dig. When the soil is more compact than you expect, dig harder. Feel the earth resist you. Resist back. Take out the body, piece by piece. In she goes–the head you hollowed out with fictionalized memories to replace the truth; two bloodied arms covered in overlapping words; her torso, punctured over and over by too many sharply felt emotions. There is nothing to mourn here, so do not mourn. Know you’ve done your part to return dust to dust, ashes to ashes, stories to silence. Be at peace that no one will ever thank you for your service. Take in this fact: you have won. No need to think harder. When writing is killing you, kill it at last.
Never go back to that part of the park, not for picnics or weddings or–flimsiest excuse of them all–sentimental reasons. When the soft, panting mewls snake through the sewage system and call to you from the toilet, flush your shit and go. Do not investigate. Learn jokes to strategically deploy; there is so much room in this new brain of yours now that she is buried. Remember a pigeon shitting on you in the middle of a rainstorm is not a metaphor. It is just a pigeon shitting on you in the middle of a rainstorm.
When a third pigeon shits on you in the middle of a rainstorm and you walk by a sign that reads “Do not ignore this sign” and you can’t tell if rats are following you home or if that’s just a narrative crawling through your skull—do not try reanimate her corpse in search of meaning. It won’t matter–when you go back to where she’s buried, the earth is completely flattened, smooth as a blank page.
Ignore the irony of these paragraphs existing. This is you, during witching hour, sharing your victory and how you healed yourself by putting her to rest. Know this is not writing; this is reporting. Rationalize the difference between the two. Don’t turn around. Don’t turn around. Don’t turn around. Keep typing, for your sake. Fall into the embrace of two arms, inked with overlapping words. Blink until you can see through the helmet of a hollowed head. Breathe through the tightness of a second torso covering your chest. Let the others know. This is a warning. When you think you’ve killed writing, its commanding voice will resurrect it anyway.
Eda Tse is a reformed biologist, once-again writer living in Brooklyn. Find her on Twitter @suburbpastoral.